Jonathan Kellerman: Obsession

“You were the muscle.”

“I was looking after Blaise for Mary .”

Milo said, “Did a great job, Bozo.”

Biro said, “Blaise wanted an entourage.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who were the other members?”

“That’s it.”

“You and Moses.”

Nod.

“Why’d Blaise reduce his entourage by killing Mosey?”

“Mosey kept saying he was cool with it but you could tell he was lying.”

“Blaise figured he might talk about Lester,” said Petra.

“Guy was soft ,” said Fisk.

“Why’d Blaise kill Lester?”

“Lester called Blaise, said you guys were looking into the girls, other old stuff Blaise did, Blaise should get out of town. Blaise said fuck that, there’s an easier way.”

I said, “He just admitted knowing Blaise intended to murder Lester.”

Milo’s grin lit up the observation room. “Thank you, Lord, for stupid criminals.”

Petra said, “So that’s Blaise’s pattern. He kills people to keep them quiet.”

“Yes.” Loud and definite.

“What about the girls?”

“That,” said Fisk, “he just hated them. I guess.”

“He never talked about it?”

“No, Mary told me.”

“Okay. Robert, this is good, we appreciate your cooperation. Let’s get back for a sec to Mosey Grant. How and where did he die?”

“ Where was this building we were crashing in, used to be a car mechanics or something, then it was a club, then it got empty. How , I didn’t see. Blaise sent me out to buy food, I went to the Grand Central Market-that big place, where the Mexicans sell stuff cheap?” Quick glance at Biro.

Biro said, “You get any of those hand-folded tamales?”

“I bought junk and crap for the two of them, fresh vegetables for me,” said Fisk. “I like those edamame beans. I get back, Mosey’s lying there, Blaise is fooling with his ProTools, doing a mix like nothing happened. I say what’s up, Blaise says he slipped roofies in Moses’ milk. Moses drank a lot of milk, liked butter, cheese, anything dairy. All the high fat, that’s why he looked like that.”

Shaping a convex abdomen and frowning.

Petra said, “How’d Blaise kill Moses?”

“Shot him.”

“With what?”

“This.22 he carries around. He’s got other stuff, but he carries that.”

“What other stuff?”

“Shotgun,.44, bunch of knives. The.22 fits in his pocket.”

“What make?”

“Cheap gun, Czechoslovakian or Romanian or something. He calls it his best friend, he got it on the street when he started dealing dope at thirteen. That’s what he killed those dope guys with.”

“Those nameless guys.”

“He just called them dope-fiend dead guys.”

“So you come back from the market and find Mosey dead. That would be the second time you walked into one of Blaise’s nasty scenes, but you stuck with him.”

“I was pretty frustrated,” said Fisk. “That’s what I was doing at Mary’s tonight. Came to tell her I had enough.”

“Instead you ended up getting intimate.”

“It’s what happens with us,” said Fisk. “We’ve got chemistry.”

“So your plan was to…”

“Turn Blaise in to you. You want him, go to 13466 Hillside View up in Mount Washington, it’s this house he’s been crashing in.”

“He?”

“He found it. I was going to leave tomorrow.”

Petra copied down the address, exited the room.

Milo was already on his phone, dialing SWAT. As he called in for a raiding party, Petra returned to Fisk, stayed on her feet, looking down at him. “Mary own that house?”

“No, it belongs to some deejay, got a karaoke machine, Blaise knows him from clubs.”

“Name?”

“The mail says Perry Moore.”

“Where is he?”

“Away,” said Fisk. “Playing on some cruise ship, Blaise said.”

“Does Mr. Moore know you’ve been staying at his house?”

Eye shift. “According to Blaise.”

“Blaise have a key?”

“He said he lost it.”

“How’d you gain entry?”

Fisk shifted in his chair. “He broke a window.”

“After he broke, you entered.”

“He said it was okay.” Fisk clicked his teeth together. Began rocking a leg.

“Something bothering you, Robert?”

“Still thirsty,” said Fisk. “Can I have that juice, now? Also an attorney?”

Petra’s heavy foot and two a.m. quiet made Hollywood to Mount Washington a quick drive.

Blaise De Paine’s hideout was a little gray frame house atop a short, obscure street, just up the freeway from Chinatown where Moses Grant had been dumped. SWAT vehicles clogged the block. The altitude offered a misty, pine-interrupted view of a black damask sky.

An open garage door framed the bulk of the Hummer. Inside the house, clothing, food, and body odor clogged four slovenly rooms, but no sign of De Paine.

The second SWAT team was more subdued than the jocks who’d busted Fisk, everyone let down by big buildup, no action. A deputy commander had showed up to stage-direct, a thickset, bowlegged bald man named Lionel Harger, with meaty furrows sausaging his forehead and a multicrushed nose that sniffed the air with canine intensity.

He charged out of the house now, bounded across the porch, planted himself in front of Petra, folded his arms across a pigeon-chest. “Two in one night? We should charge you desk-folk by the hour.”

Milo said, “Be grateful you don’t get paid by the suspect.”

Harger’s chin jerked upward as if he’d been jabbed. “You’re that West L.A. so-called ace, does things…uniquely.” Corkscrew smile on the last word.

Milo said, “Beats administrative meetings and other random bullshit,” and made the most of his height.

Harger’s eyes bugged and his thorax swelled. “Concentrate on your clearance rate, Lieutenant. For comedy, stick with Robin Williams.”

He stomped away, began gathering his troops. The crime techs were swarming the property like picnic ants, examining the Hummer, flashlighting oil stains in the driveway, searching for tire tracks. The five-year-old Mazda Miata registered to Perry Moore was nowhere in sight. Petra had put an alert on it five minutes ago.

Lionel Harger strutted to an armored Ford Expedition, stopped to glare, got in, roared off.

Petra said, “Making friends and influencing people, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

Milo said, “Meathead doesn’t recall but he was one year ahead of me at the academy. Assorted sneaky individuals used to leave hostile printed matter in my locker. Ol’ Lionel could always be counted on to snicker when he just happened to pass by as I was unearthing some treasure.”

His turn to stomp away, over to the house, where he ducked under the yellow tape.

Petra said, “Everyone’s fading from sleep deprivation,” but her eyes were on high-beam. “Blaise is one lucky little monster, keeps slipping away.”

I said, “When he didn’t hear from Fisk, he probably got jumpy.”

“Any guess about where he’s gone?”

I shook my head.

“Reach Tanya?” she said.

“Left messages at her cell and Kyle’s.”

“This hour, they’re probably snoozing. Though when I was in college, I seem to recall three o’clock being midafternoon. Try again?”

I did. Same result.

She said, “At least that mansion’s got a good security system.”

Her cell beeped. Raul Biro informing her Robert Fisk had been taken to County Jail. She filled Biro in, turned back to me. “We’ll get Blaise eventually. Until we do, Tanya should take a semester off and go far away.”

Before I could answer, a tall, mustachioed tech came out to show her a rumpled red velvet jacket with gold-braid lapels. Hollywood Elite Custom Tailors label inside, low-rent address on the east end of the Boulevard, BDP monogram above that.